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| - Of the many, many things that have all but disappeared in America (unfortunately barbarians do not appear to be one of them), the one I think I miss the most is the welcoming, luxurious bookstore, complete with cafe and overpriced knicknacks, and where you can buy books you have every intention of reading, immediately after you have mastered Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, visited every country in the world, run a successful charity, ended world hunger and started your own political party. No wonder those damn books are gathering dust on your shelf.
But I digress. Indigo is what Barnes and Noble wanted to be but could never become even with plastic surgery. Not only brand new with that new book smell still exuding from its being, but also classy and chic, the Bloomingdales of its domain.
Books in both English and Canadian fill the shelves, beckoning you to peruse, to explore, even to conquer and become all that your progenitors hoped you could be and more, while the cafe, with its intoxicating yet curiously legal concoctions, wafts its perfume throughout the store.
Outside, a yoga class is taking place and office workers are lounging on the too-comfortable, stainless steel chaise lounges which create an air of public self-indulgence. You will eventually leave, but only because you have to, and it's a good thing, since you would be shocked more than anyone if you knew how long you would languish here, given the chance!
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